


String Me Along

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has just been rejected at his audition for a string quartet, and is trying and failing to not feel too miserable about it. But then he meets Dean, who has an even better offer for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	String Me Along

Cas left the concert hall, trying not to feel too disappointed. The girl who’d heard him audition had been very kind; she’d told him that he was a very good player, but he just wasn’t quite right for the quartet that she was putting together. Cas had gripped the neck of his violin very tightly and nodded, telling her that he didn’t mind at all, he completely understood. He’d thanked her for hearing his audition, packed up his instrument with his usual care, and then walked away.

Now, in the corridor outside the hall, he started to make his way towards the exit. Some younger kids brushed past him, laughing as they ran; Cas gripped his violin a little more firmly, looking curiously at the pieces of artwork pinned to the boards that ran all along the hallway. He’d never visited this school before – he was a senior at another high school, across town – but when he’d seen someone advertising for a violin to play in a quartet, he’d decided to come along. It wasn’t a long journey on the bus. It would have been fun, Cas thought, trying not to allow himself too much self-pity as he stared at a particular picture on the wall – a drawing of a candle. It wasn’t very good, but there was so much warmth and colour that it didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe that’s what was wrong with his violin playing, Cas thought. His technique was precise and sophisticated, but unlike the maker of this painting, he never seemed to be able to put any warmth into it. His feelings simply didn’t seem to translate to music; he felt awkward and strange just thinking about it. That was probably why the girl hadn’t wanted him in her quartet. His playing was still like a child’s, lacking emotional depth.

“Cheer up, buddy,” said a voice, startling Cas a little. “It might never happen.”

He turned to see someone sitting on the floor a few feet away, leaning up against the wall beside the door at the end of the corridor. It was a boy, probably around Cas’ age, and Cas’ first impression of him was one of smug complacency, with his lazy smile and relaxed, loose posture, one leg bent up and the other stretched out flat along the floor. As Cas stared, however, the smile faded a little, but the look in the boy’s eyes sharpened, became more interested.

“It already did happen,” Cas said, remembering that he needed to respond a few seconds too late. “I auditioned for a place in a quartet, but I was turned down.”

The boy twisted his mouth to one side in an expression of sympathy, and nodded.

“That sucks ass,” he said. “I bet you’re really good.”

“You haven’t heard me,” Cas replied, a little sharply. “It would be a foolish bet.”

“I’ll take my chances,” the boy said, staring at Cas for a moment longer with a little smile on his lips before swinging himself to his feet, and holding out his hand.

“Dean,” he said. Up close, Cas could see the freckles across his nose and cheeks, and the deep green of his eyes. He put his hand in Dean’s and shook it.

“Castiel,” he replied, hearing the stiffness in his own voice and cringing a little. Dean didn’t seem to notice, though; at least, his smile didn’t dim in the slightest.

“You like my art?” he said, pointing to the picture of the candle on the wall.

“It’s yours?” Cas said, turning back to it. “I like it a lot. The way that you use colour is very unique.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Dean said, grinning up at it. Cas cast him a quick glance, noting the sharpness of his jawline, and how soft his skin looked.

How soft his skin looked? That was an incredibly creepy thought. Cas realised to his horror that he was actually blushing, and Dean was looking round at him and smiling.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it as an insult, you’re fine.”

“I – good,” Cas said, and flickered a smile in return.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Dean said, as they continued to stare at the painting together. Cas wasn’t really seeing it anymore; he was too focused on the boy next to him.

“No,” Cas said. “I go to school across town.” As his eyes traced the smooth yellow flick of colour at one side of the candle in the painting, Cas turned his head ever so slightly, so that he could see more of Dean in his peripheral vision.

“Huh. Is it true that your teacher once brought a live wolverine to biology?” Dean said, and his question was strange enough to startle Cas out of his contemplation of Dean’s profile.

“No,” he said. “I’ve never heard about anything like that.”

“Damn. I should’ve known Jo was making it up.”

“A wolverine would not be a good animal to bring to class,” Cas said. “Its aggressive attitude would likely result in disaster.”

“Yeah, OK,” Dean said. “It’d be cool, though, come on.”

Cas thought for a moment. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him, speeding up his heart.

“Yes,” he said. “It would be cool.”

They smiled at each other for a few seconds. Dean’s eyes were very green, Cas thought. They were flicking over his whole face, taking it in. Was he imagining the way that they lingered for a moment on his lips?

“So come on,” Dean said, breaking the moment. “Let’s hear you play.”

Cas frowned.

“I already played today,” he said. “It didn’t go that well.”

Dean shrugged, his lips curving down a little on both sides in an expression of relaxed dismissal.

“I can help with that,” he said. “You see, I’m actually a violin expert.”

“You are?” Cas said, believing it for a moment until he saw the sparkle of mischief in Dean’s eyes.

“Yep,” Dean asserted. “I know everything there is to know about violins. Strings, bows… uh… twirly bits at the end. Everything.”

“You are obviously a connoisseur,” Cas said gravely, though it was obvious that Dean wouldn’t know his Strauss from his Stradivarius.

“Mm-hmm, yeah, that’s right,” said Dean, nodding confidently. “So, you know, if you played something, I could probably tell you why that quartet didn’t let you in.”

Cas glanced around them, and then gestured awkwardly with one hand.

“Here in the corridor?” he said, looking at Dean, and finding his resolve melting under the warmth and interest in the other boy’s eyes. It seemed – somewhat bizarrely – as though Dean really did want to hear him play. Cas couldn’t imagine why, but he wasn’t going to complain about being able to hold Dean’s attention. It was a good feeling.

“Why not?” Dean said. “Wait, actually, I have a better idea.”

He started to move off down the hallway, reaching back and grabbing Cas just above his elbow as he went, so that Cas was dragged along too. He walked them both back to the door into the concert hall and walked through it; the place was deserted, though some of the lights were still on, illuminating the stage. For a moment, Dean and Cas stood side by side in the semi-darkness.

After a moment, Dean nudged him.

“Go on, get up there!” he said.

Cas’ legs were moving before he’d even decided to agree; there was something about Dean’s presence that was a little giddying. If Dean had suggested that they attempt to move the whole building six inches to the left, Cas thought he’d probably already be looking for a shovel and calculating angles. He had the kind of brightness that starts a light inside the people around him, as well; Cas had read about things like that, but never thought he’d come across it in real life.

Reaching the front of the room, Cas laid his violin carefully on the stage before vaulting up onto it. He crouched over his case, opening it and removing his instrument. He tightened the strings on his bow, not bothering to apply resin since he’d played so shortly before. Straightening up, he stroked the bow lightly over the strings. His D string was a little flat; that often happened with this violin. He fiddled with the fine tuners until he was happy.

Turning out to face the auditorium, Cas saw that Dean had taken up a position a few rows back, his feet propped up on the seat in front, his arms crossed. When Cas looked at him, he grinned.

“Ready to audition?” he said. “Please state your name.”

Cas bit back a smile, and decided to play along.

“Castiel Novak,” he said.

“Good. And what will you be playing?”

“A section of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, second movement,” Cas replied, taking a few steps so that he was standing at the centre of the stage. The lights were brighter here, so that he could no longer see Dean at all.

“Ah, yes,” Dean said airily. “My favourite of all the movements. OK, when you’re ready, Cas.”

 _Cas,_ he thought.  _Cas._ The name sounded good coming out of Dean’s mouth. He wanted to hear it again.

He took a deep breath, the scent of resin dust and lacquered wood in his nose. His violin felt good tucked under his chin, the bow like a blade in his hand, weighted just right. He knew his piece from memory, despite its complexity; he’d practised it often enough. He didn’t need the music, though he’d used it in his actual audition, just to be sure that he’d get every note perfect. Now, of course, that didn’t matter. Dean wouldn’t notice if he went a little wrong. Hopefully, even if he messed up a few notes, Dean would be impressed. Maybe he’d clap him on the shoulder, or smile at him.

It was of Dean’s smile that Cas was thinking as he raised his bow, his own lips curved up a little, and started to play.

The piece was beautiful, of course. Cas had known that objectively before today. But now, in this moment, he thought for the first time that he truly felt it. He thought of Dean and it was as though there was a little fire in his heart, small and new, barely licking the kindling – but the song was a bellows, each stroke of the bow over the strings like a lick of petrol striped across the coals, and now that tiny fire was building, growing hotter and brighter and stronger, sending flares of light through his blood. He played the song, not note by note, but like one single string of sound, forgetting to be careful, allowing the melody to draw his excitement out like a siphon. He put a little of his frustration at being rejected from the quartet in there, too, and then unbidden came other emotions – a little sadness, a little happiness, a little hopefulness, and Cas didn’t know where they came from, but it didn’t matter – they were there in his heart, so they were there in the music.

The piece seemed to melt away, faster than it had ever done before. Like a tide of water bursting its dam, Cas felt the great surge of power lilting slowly into something kinder, more manageable, as the piece moved towards its conclusion. He drew out the last note, unwilling to let the music go – but then he was at the end of his bow, and the piece had ended. He lowered his bow, and let his violin fall to his side. He swallowed, and blinked into the lights.

There was silence. Cas couldn’t see Dean at all.

What if he’d left, Cas thought suddenly? The idea was like a punch to the gut. Maybe Dean had thought that it was awful, and had escaped to save himself the trouble of telling Cas so. Or perhaps Dean had been embarrassed by all the emotion that Cas had put into playing the piece, and had walked away because of that.

A moment later, though, Cas heard soft footsteps approaching the stage, and then Dean was swinging himself up to stand in front of Cas. His eyes looked a little wet; probably a reaction to all the dust in the room, Cas thought.

“That was amazing,” Dean said, a little hoarsely. “I don’t know how they didn’t let you into their quartet, man, but that was – that was really something.”

Cas watched Dean, his eyes wide. Dean seemed to be being honest; the respect and slight wonder in his eyes went too deep to be feigned. Dean coughed and looked down, and Cas realised that Dean was uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because he was showing emotion, Cas thought. He needed to help navigate them back to shallower waters.

“Is that your professional opinion?” Cas asked. His tone was as deadpan as ever, but he made sure that there was a little twinkle in his eyes when Dean looked back up at him.

“Huh? Oh, right,” Dean said, and a little grin formed around his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Well, in my expert opinion, that was excellent.”

“Are you sure?” Cas said. “I thought my bow-work was a little messy.”

“Oh, yeah, well. Obviously that was a bit off. And the way that you moved your fingers on the strings at the top, that was a little, um, fast.”

“Fast?”

“Yeah, man, it was too fast. You gotta slow it down for Tchaikovsky. Really  _feel_ it, you know.”

He’d been moving a little closer as he spoke, so that by the time he finished the sentence, they were standing facing each other, near enough to reach out and touch.

“Thank you,” Cas said. “I’ll try to implement your constructive criticism.”

“You’d better,” Dean said. “Wisdom like this doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

They were even closer now; Cas wasn’t sure if it was he who had moved, or Dean. It didn’t matter, though, not when they were so near to each other, and Cas was hyperaware of Dean’s body, of the warm stroke of his gaze across Cas’ face, of the sound of his breathing as he came nearer and nearer –

“Cas, is this…?”

“Yes,” Cas said, and closed the space between them.

Dean’s lips were soft under Cas’, and for a moment he was totally still, transfixed by the feeling. But then Dean’s hand came up to cup his cheek, and Dean was moving his lips, tilting his head slightly to press closer together, and when he opened his mouth to lightly stroke his tongue along the edge of their kiss, Cas nearly dropped his violin. After a moment, Dean drew back, but not too far. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and Cas realised he was blushing furiously, and Dean’s smile was a little nervous as well as bright and brilliant. After a moment, he cleared his throat, making an obvious effort to look serious.

“You know, Cas, I gotta tell you,” he said. “There isn’t any room in the quartet for you.”

“No?” said Cas, hearing the words for the second time that day, though they hurt less coming from the lips he’d just kissed.

“No,” Dean confirmed. “But, you know, there might be a place open in a duet, instead. You know, if… if you’re interested.”

Cas smiled, really smiled, for the first time, and the look on Dean’s face was enough to set his whole heart alight.

“I’m interested,” he said. “I’m definitely interested.”


End file.
